


All's Fair (Coup de Grâce)

by stargate-ruiner (purpleplanet)



Series: Rules of the Game [1]
Category: Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers
Genre: Agent Curt Mega Has ADHD, Angst, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Mutual Pining, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Present Tense, So I hope you all enjoy it!!, This one is a little more experimental than some of my other fics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-14 22:04:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19282084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purpleplanet/pseuds/stargate-ruiner
Summary: The life of a spy isn't always so glamorous, which is something Agent Curt Mega learns as he rises through the ranks of his agency.A new promotion brings even more complications with it.As Owen struggles in own right, Curt makes some difficult decisions.(The original concept this fic is based around was introduced by Sunny_Moonbeam on the Spies Are Forever Discord. Credit where credit is due.)





	1. Chapter 1

They tell you these things. They tell you these things that you never thought you’d hear in your life, and they say them like they’re so nonchalant. Water cooler talk.

They say these things and you are supposed to say “Yes, sir.” or “Yes, ma’am” or “of course” or “I plan to.” They say these things, and you become a walking thesaurus. You learn a thousand ways to express your agreement. And when you can’t say anything at all, you nod your head. They tell you these things, and then they don’t let you say no.

 

They give Curt a license to kill, which surprises him, because he thought that was made up for the movies. But it’s not so much a license as much as it is a superior leaning across a desk and telling him that “lethal force may be required for this mission” and that his current status gives him “authorization to exert such force on this, and any other future missions, unless otherwise specified.”

And Curt nods, because he knows the right response is acceptance, because the right response is _always_ acceptance. Curt nods, because when he pictured this conversation in his mind, when he daydreamed this promotion, he always ended it with a handshake and an appreciative smile and a “Thank you, I won’t let you down.”, but now his throat feels hoarse, and he can’t find the words, much less the smile.

It’s not just killing that he gets permission for, of course. It’s law enforcement capabilities more than anything. He gets to keep his gun on him for any and all missions. He’ll be reporting directly to Cynthia Houston now, God help him. He gets to take on bigger assignments, high risk high reward situations, much more thrilling. Finally, he gets exactly what he’d wanted. It comes with a new title and everything: Special Agent. In theory, he should be very proud of himself. But the words “lethal force” echo in his ears.

When Curt picks up his gun the next time, it feels heavier than he remembers.

  


Curt isn’t sure how the organization of MI6 works, exactly. And at this point, it’d be too embarrassing to ask. Owen always seems to know more than him about _everything,_ so Curt has no intention of letting him have the satisfaction of one more moment of incompetence to hang over his head. Besides, he can surmise everything he needs to know from the context clues.

Owen must’ve gotten whatever the MI6 equivalent promotion was to Curt’s. They were paired up together on a mission again, but in all the briefings there was an air of seriousness. This time was “for real.” Of course, every mission he’s had, even the ones he’d barely call missions, during his training, was for real.

One of the higher-ups gives Curt some advice when he passes him the hallway, tells him that he should remember that it’s “not a game anymore.”

Curt doesn’t like the sound of that. He doesn’t like the idea of ending up like some of the other agents he’s seen, the real hardened ones. The “glass is half empty, but at least it’s got booze in it” types. It’s not that he doesn’t take his job seriously, he does. He cares about making a difference. But if it ever was a game, it’s still a game. There’s just new rules. He can kill. And he can get killed. And then the game is over.

Against the odds, Curt feels lucky.

 

But he gets paired with Owen again, and they hardly ever pair up agents who don’t have the same clearances. Makes things messy. He’s together with Owen again, so they must be at the same level still. He wishes he’d learned from Owen himself, though. Wishes Owen would call more. But neither one of them is supposed to take many personal calls, something about it being safer to assume that every phone is tapped, and personal attachments making their line of work more difficult, and time zone differences causing contact to be near impossible.

But it’d be nice to hear his voice more often.

 

“Owen Carvour from MI6. You remember him, right?”

 

How the hell was Curt supposed to forget?

 

Owen had made small talk, first night of their first mission. Asked him about goals, aspirations.

Curt thought the question sounded stuffy and intellectual. (Curt often thought Owen, in general, sounded a little stuffy and intellectual.) But, a little tipsy (they’d been celebrating a successful first day), he indulged the question.

He was glad, at least, that they were getting along. Apparently, the agency didn’t expect them to. They never said so to his face, but he’d heard the phrase “last resort” thrown around quite a bit before conversations ceased when he entered the room. He didn’t have the guts to ask if Owen had picked up a similar inclination, but he suspected he had.

 

“I want to be the best spy. The _best.”_

Internally he kicked himself for his answer, realizing that it probably made him sound childish and conceited. Externally, he grinned and tried to play it off as genuine overconfidence.

That’s what worked for him in interrogations. He forced the question of why he was treating a casual conversation like an interrogation out of his mind.

 

He could hear Owen laugh before he replied. “Isn’t that what everyone in our line of work wants?”

 

“I guess.” Curt shrugged. “Do you think I can’t do it?” he challenged.

 

“That’s not at all what I was saying. I think you’re capable of accomplishing a great many things. And I do hope you get the promotions you’re after. I’ve got similar plans of moving up the ranks, as it were. And I think I’d like to see more of you.”

 

And maybe it was the alcohol talking, but Curt had the same thought. _Yeah, I’d like to see more of you, too._

  


They tell him he’ll need a partner on this mission, for his own protection. “By the way,” they start the sentence so indifferently, “By the way, part of the reason we’ve paired you up is that we have reason to believe someone’s ordered a hit on you.”

Curt has always found briefings boring, but he tries his best to listen, even when he really doesn’t want to hear it, and it’d be _so easy_ just to let his mind wander.

But he tries his best to listen, and they say things about “passing the tip on to their friends across the pond,” and “being extremely careful” but also “staying focused on the actual mission at hand”, and “intercepted transmissions that use the phrase ‘nip it in the bud’” and their relation to the plans to target younger, newer agents.

And “Oh, your flight leaves tomorrow, so get packing.”

And what can Curt do? He nods.


	2. Chapter 2

When Curt sees Owen the next time, he looks just like Curt remembers him. Tall, but not necessarily imposing. Dark hair, dark eyes. His hair is a little longer, Curt realizes, he must’ve grown it out. Gangly limbs that would look awkward on anyone else, but somehow, on him, look graceful, and for lack of a better word, _right._ Owen, with that lopsided smile and careful intrigued expression, who looks at Curt likes he’s fascinated by him. Owen, smooth and cocky and clever. Owen, whose hand is twitching slightly because he hasn’t had a smoke in a short while.

 

And Curt wonders if he could offer a hug as a friendly greeting.

And Curt wonders if he should comment on his hair.

And Curt wonders if it would be alright to tell Owen that he missed him.

And Curt wonders if he should just stick to a professional greeting and leave it at that.

Curt mulls over the difference between a coworker and a companion in his head as he approaches Owen, but when he’s close enough to speak, whatever carefully crafted greeting he came up with leaves his mind and the first thing he blurts is: “You smell like cigarettes.”

Owen laughs in that way does, lilting and breathy, signaling that Curt has, yet again, caught him off guard. Curt has a knack for doing that, it seems.

“Yes, I’ve picked up the habit.” he admits. “Calms the nerves.”

He produces a pack of Chesterfields from his pocket and brings one to his lips, drawing Curt’s attention to follow the sweeping motion of his hand. He stops just shy of his mouth, freezing as Curt pipes up.

“I heard somewhere that cigarettes can actually make you more anxious.”

Owen’s expression is blank for just a second, before he comes back to himself, and a smile curls across his lips and _there’s that laugh again._

“You’re probably right about that.” He looks at Curt, and there’s something defiant and mesmerizing in his expression when he asks “Got a light?”

As if on command, almost without thinking, Curt’s hand darts, as quickly as he would draw his gun, to fish around in his pocket for his lighter.

 

He finds the lighter, finally, and flicks it to life, holding out his arm. A second too late, he realizes that he probably should have just handed Owen the lighter, that Owen isn’t some girl in a bar that he’s trying to pick up, he’s a _colleague,_ he’s a friend, he’s--

Owen, without hesitation, leans forward, and lights the cigarette in his mouth. For just a moment, his face is illuminated by the glow of the flame, before he pulls back and nods his thanks, and Curt is fixated on his eyes.

Curt is pretty sure his assumptions regarding his promotion have been confirmed. Owen’s all charm and politeness as usual, but he’s got a look in his eyes like he’s just been told some bad news and is trying to save face.

And it’s not bad news! It’s good news, if anything. It’s a promotion! It’s moving up in the world. It’s exactly what they’d both said they wanted.

Still, Curt knows the feeling.

 

He recognizes the look in Owen’s eyes as fear and not resignation. Which means the rules of the game had changed for Owen too, but he hadn’t played by them yet. Curt tries not to think about the first time he had to look in the mirror, to shave, after he’d taken advantage of the promotion.

He trained a lot for the moment. He knew what gunfire sounded like, what a trigger felt like, what a bullet hole looked like.

There’s something different about it in the moment. There’s something terrifying about it. Curt can’t place exactly what changed, though. He hadn’t been trained for the sound of a scream, hadn’t been trained for the sight of a body hitting the ground, hadn’t been trained for the feeling of his stomach in knots. And he knows, he _knows,_ that it was life or death, that the man he killed was a horrible person and a murderer himself, that it was fully within his rights to do what he did. And he knows that he’s going to have to do it again and again.

He didn’t like the feeling of the razor in his hands. He couldn’t make eye contact with himself.

He’d been on a few missions, since then. Everything eventually mellowed out, became a gentle hum. The first time hurts, but you get over it quick. The first time hurts, but you know you’ll do it again inevitably. The first time hurts, but by the third time you don’t have to drink it off when you go home, and by the fifth time, you don’t have to close your eyes or wince, and by the tenth time, you’re laughing. It’s all just part of the job.

 

But Curt can tell in the way Owen carries himself that although something is different, something is very much the same. Owen hasn’t killed yet.

 _Huh,_ Curt thinks, _Good for him._

 

Curt is snapped back to the present when Owen remarks that he is actually a little surprised that Curt carries a lighter, as he’s never been known to be much of a smoker.

“I was a boy scout.” Curt mumbles as justification. “Always prepared.”

“Semper paratus.” Owen repeats, closing his eyes and taking another drag off the cigarette.

 

Then it's off to their hotel, and into their personal rooms, across the hall from each other.

 

The room itself is plain but not unwelcoming. The bed is big enough for two, but Curt knows it will also be small enough for one. Yellowish wallpaper. Mostly just the essentials. A clock, a mirror, a lamp, a dresser, a bathroom, a table by the door, a bedside table with a bible tucked in the back of its top drawer, and a heavy glass ashtray atop it. Curt has no intention of using it, but doesn't put it away just yet, considering that Owen might use it if he comes over.

And there’s a balcony, which is special. Usually the rooms he stays in don’t have such nice additions. But he’s got a view of the whole city skyline from up there. Curt thinks it would be nice to bring someone up there. It’d be a nice place to split a bottle of champagne.

 

But it’s whiskey that he knows he’ll be drinking soon enough.


	3. Chapter 3

They’ve got four days for the mission. Curt hopes the first day will go well. He hopes all the days will go well, but he especially hopes that the  _ first _ day will go well. Because if their first day goes well, that lets Curt propose that they celebrate, and he thinks he’s going to need a little liquid courage in him before he broaches the topic of their new permissions.

 

Curt gets his wish.

It’s really just a reconnaissance mission, nothing more. Gather information, and then leave. Report back to headquarters. Pat yourself on the back and pretend you saved the world.

But they get some information that looks like it’s going to be important. That’s for the higher-ups to decide; they’re just field agents. 

 

(Curt mused once, very drunk, that sometimes he felt like a trained attack dog, and the leaders of his agency are holding his leash until they need to point him at a target. 

Owen, much more sober, had replied that it seemed like “an astute observation, and a scathing analysis of the situation.” but if Curt felt so demeaned by his job, wouldn’t he “have left by now, old boy?”.

Curt woke up with a splitting headache and no memory of the conversation. 

Owen hadn’t gotten any sleep, too consumed by the question of what happens to attack dogs that break out of their harnesses and run away. And too frightened by the realization that more often than not, they’re deemed dangerous and put down.)

 

When they get out of the elevators to return to their respective rooms, Curt claps Owen on the shoulder and says “Hey, what about our tradition?”

 

“It’s hardly a tradition.” Owen counters, but he’s smiling.

 

“All traditions start somewhere.”

 

Curt opens his door and holds it for Owen, waving his hand to usher him through. 

 

“What a gentleman.” Owen remarks sarcastically. 

 

“Shut up.” Curt replies with a grin. 

 

Once he’s poured the first drinks, he offers a toast. Owen asks what they’re toasting to, sure that Curt will already have a response prepared. (A good toast is a good excuse to drink, after all.)

Curt tells him that they’re drinking to “success: past, present, and hopefully future.”

“Cheers.” Owen says, clinking their glasses together, before downing his. 

Curt follows suit, finishing off his own. He revels in the burn for just a moment, lets it sit in his stomach. He sighs, mustering up his confidence.

“I got promoted.” he says finally.

 

“Oh.” Owen says. 

 

“What about you, over at the circus? You advancing there at all?” Curt tries to joke. 

 

“I’m doing quite well for myself, thank you very much.” There’s a little playful annoyance in his voice.

When Curt looks at him with expectant eyes, Owen feels the need to clarify.

“I’ve been…” he hesitates, “ _ promoted, _ as well. If you can call it that. At MI6, there’s a certain classification of agents, with certain permissions allotted to them. Now I’m one of them.”

 

“That’s a promotion if I’ve ever heard one” Curt shrugs.

Owen nods. That’s in line with his mental image of Curt, the eternal optimist. 

Curt was the sort of person to expect clear skies, get a rainstorm and say “Ah, well, it’s good for the plants.”

Curt was the sort of person to spill wine on his shirt and joke that he “looks better in red anyway.”

Curt was the sort of person to call a license to kill a “promotion.”

Owen says, “I assume we’re,  _ ahem _ , at the same level, in terms of authority?”

 

“I guess.” Curt replies flippantly. 

A beat. 

“It’s a lot isn’t it?” 

 

“It all feels very real all of a sudden.” Owen agrees.

 

Curt notices the heaviness in his tone. The conversation reminds him of the way distant relatives talk at funerals: always avoiding outright mentioning certain topics, carefully stepping around each other’s feelings, navigating a maze of outdated social conventions and modern anxieties.

Curt breaks the tension the only way he knows how.

“You want another drink?” he tips the bottle in Owen’s direction.

 

“Are you trying to get me drunk, Agent Mega?”

 

Curt holds up one finger, “Actually, it’s technically  _ Special  _ Agent Mega now.” he corrects, grinning goofily.

 

“Fancy.” Owen remarks. “But either way, I’d like to stay sharp for tomorrow if you don’t mind.” He starts to rise from his chair.

 

“Come on, it’s just a stakeout.”

 

“Tell you what,” he starts, already walking towards the door. “You get as inebriated as you’d like on your own time, and I’ll drive tomorrow.” 

 

Curt wants to protest, wants to hold onto the moment a little longer. But he doesn’t. He relents. He falls back on his instinct to agree, and with a dismissive wave of his hand he grumbles “Yeah, whatever.”

 

Owen cracks a smile at that and lingers in the doorway for just a moment, leaning one arm on the door frame. “Goodnight,  _ Special Agent. _ ” 

 

Once Owen’s gone, Curt pours himself another drink and tells himself that anything he’s feeling can be slept off.


	4. Chapter 4

It really is just a stakeout, from a vehicle their agencies have allowed them to use. It’s a nice car, not so flashy that it’d be memorable, but a nice car nonetheless. Curt almost wishes that it’d been something a little sportier, a little faster. They’re not expecting a chase which means this stakeout is going to be _boring_ , and probably take _forever,_ but if he zones out, and gets caught, Owen will never let him live it down. Curt knows he should consider himself lucky when a mission turns out like this, slow and deliberate and with no anticipation of car chases, or shootouts, or whatever else would make it actually _exciting._ He should be grateful for his safety. But he’d rather be in the moment but in peril, than drifting away but safe.

Barb, that new girl in the lab who always seems to be chasing after him, sometimes calls him a “thrill seeker”.

Curt just hopes that he can be called a good spy.

 

The stakeout is unproductive, to say the least. It just keeps dragging on and on and the man they were sent to watch hasn’t even arrived yet.

Curt call tell it’s weighing on Owen too, although he tries harder to hide it, brooding and apparently remaining vigilant. But the frustration makes itself known in his furrowed brow, and even as Curt tries to make light conversation, he senses that Owen is starting to get fed up with the whole thing.

Owen huffs and a loose strand of his dark chocolate colored hair falls in his face, and before Curt realizes what he’s doing, he reaches across and gently tucks it behind Owen’s ear.

When his mind catches up to his hand, he immediately draws it back, mumbling “I’m sorry.”

 

“Whatever for?” Owen asks innocently.

 

Curt doesn’t know how to answer.

 

They sit in silence for a short while, before Owen starts thinking out loud. “I should cut it.” he says, regarding his hair.

Curt looks over at him, wide-eyed. “Why would you do that?”

“MI6 says it’s unprofessional.”

Curt runs that over in his head, and then, stubborn as ever, replies, “Well, _I_ think it’s handsome.”

Owen chuckles. “You would.”

And before Curt can get out his “Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?”, Owen is nudging him on the shoulder and pointing, because their suspect just arrived, and yet again the car goes silent.

 

Owen takes most of the notes, because he has the neater handwriting of the two. He writes in cursive by default, and it comes out looking like script even when he’s not trying. Curt watches the pen positioned snugly in Owen’s fingers dance across the page, and then reminds himself that he’s supposed to keep his eyes on the target.

Every so often, Owen will dictate something for Curt to take down, so he will, in his messy scrawl. He always manages to find room for it on the page, despite the doodled stars and tic-tac-toe games he keeps losing to himself.

 

His mind wanders. He can’t tear himself fully away from Owen, who looks so pensive and deep in thought and focused. Owen has a habit of rubbing his chin while he thinks. Curt thinks it makes him look like some sort of brilliant philosopher or distinguished academic. Sometimes he drums the fingertips of his free hand on the steering wheel, and Curt thinks he’s probably got good hands for the piano, and good hands for lockpicking, and good hands for _holding,_ and then he shakes that thought out of his head.

Owen bites his lip while he takes down another note. Curt recalls how his mouth curves into a smile when he says things like “special agent” and “you would.” Curt thinks about curves. Curt thinks about Owen’s wrist rolling when he shows off that he can twirl a knife. Curt thinks about hips and corkscrews and bullets.

Curt, despite his best efforts, thinks about Owen’s lips.

Owen, with his eyes trained on the suspect, says “Are you paying attention?”

Curt watches Owen rest his pen in his mouth almost the same way he does a cigarette. He lies and says “Yes.”

 

Curt thinks that if Owen would look at him with even half as much curiosity and concentration as he looks at criminals and marks, he’d get taken apart, unraveled, disassembled like the meticulously annotated pages of the classic novels Owen’s always reading, with underlined passages and notes in the margins. Curt suddenly finds himself very attracted to the idea of falling to pieces.

 

Curt yawns, and when Owen turns his head to face him, he’s still brandishing the pen and Curt’s heart pounds at the thought of Owen dismantling him, decoding his metaphors. Curt can’t manage to convince himself that he’s imagining the care in Owen’s eyes, and he is filled with a mixture of dread of desire at the thought of Owen reading between the lines.

Owen breathes a laugh and says “Maybe we should call it a night?”

 

“Don’t worry about me. I can last as long you need.”

Owen shoots him a look and Curt grumbles, “Get your mind out of the gutter.”

 

“Not tired?”

 

“Nah, I’m alright.” Curt shrugs.

 

“A little bored, maybe?” Owen raises an eyebrow.

 

“You got me there.” he confesses.

 

“It’s thankless work.” Owen concurs, “but it can’t all be so exciting.”

 

“You didn’t strike me as the daredevil type, Carvour.”

 

“No?” he sounds almost amused.

 

“You always seem to look before you leap.”

 

“Yes, well we’ve done a whole lot of _looking_ today. I should think the want of a little _leaping_ is warranted.”

 

“You just eager to put those ‘new permissions’ of yours into action?”

 

Owen tenses, clearly put on edge by the reminder. “Hardly.”

 

Curt feels a tinge of guilt at causing such a reaction in his partner.

“Yeah,” Curt sighs. “Neither was I.”

 

And again, the car is quiet, but not uncomfortable. It is almost a soothing silence, a healing breath. As much as they’d both longed for a rush, they find themselves savoring the moment to exhale.

The spell is broken when Owen speaks. “It’s getting dark. Soon it won’t matter how long either of us can last; we won’t be able to see anything meaningful anyway.”

 

Curt opens his mouth to agree but instead lets out another yawn. He slumps down in his seat, embarrassed.

Owen laughs and it’s only half sarcastic. “I’ll take that as my cue.” He looks over at Curt with a distinct fondness before getting back to the matter at hand, turning the keys, starting the engine, and shifting gears. He extends an arm over the back of Curt’s seat as he looks out of the rear windshield and pulls out. Curt feels his heart skip a beat.

And then they’re onto the road properly, and Owen retracts his arm and shifts into drive. Curt leans his head against the shotgun side window and looks out at the long dark road expanding before him. He loses himself in the darkness of the sky, traces patterns of trailing stars and watches how the crescent moon seems to follow them.

Owen catches Curt stargazing, half shadowed and nearly glowing under the lights of passing streetlamps. He looks utterly transfixed and utterly transcendental. Under his breath, he mutters “doubt thou the stars are fire.”

 

Curt stirs. “What was that?”

 

“Doubt thou the stars are fire;

Doubt that the sun doth move;

Doubt truth to be a liar;

But never doubt I love.” Owen recites.

 

Curt stares at him silently for a few moments, before awkwardly clearing his throat.

Owen glances over at Curt. “Hamlet.” he explains, nervousness evident in his voice.

 

“Eyes on the road.” Curt grumbles.

 

Owen redirects his vision out the windshield again. He listens to the gentle rolling rumble of the road and the purr of the engine. He spares only passing glances at the man in the passenger seat, who seems to be drifting in and out of near-slumber. The long tedious day had apparently worn him out.

 

Curt speaks up again and his voice sounds sleepy. “Someone ordered a hit on me.”

“I heard.” he runs his hand up and down the wheel tensely. “I have a hard time imagining someone wanting you dead.”

 

“I know, right? I’m just so _likable_ and _endearing._ ” he jokes. “Supposedly whoever’s doing this is trying to take out rookie agents and newly promoted types. Finish ‘em off before they get far enough in the business to really do anything.”

 

“How depraved.” Owen comments. “Does it scare you?”

 

“What? Having a price on my head? _No, not at all.”_ he drawls sarcastically.

 

“You know what I mean.” Owen says, “You could have refused the mission.”

 

“No, I really couldn’t have.” Curt argues.

 

“Why’s that?”

 

“I joined the agency to help people, right? To save lives, to make a difference? I don’t get to pick and choose or take an off day just because someone might be out to get me. There’s _always_ going to be someone out to get me. I knew the risks when I became a spy. And if they’re focusing their efforts on me, that’s even better, because that means they’re not focusing on anyone else. I’d rather have the chance to actually fight, even if I’m just drawing fire, than to sit back and let someone else get hurt. And isn’t that part of the thrill of the job anyway? Knowing that your life is in jeopardy? I mean, not to sound like I have a death wish or anything. But if I wanted to be completely safe all the time, I wouldn’t have chosen this job, y’know? The adrenaline is part of the appeal.” he reflects, his gaze alternating between the view out the window and Owen beside him.

 

Owen tips his head towards him slightly. “There’s an expression for that: ‘Dulce periculum’. Danger is sweet.”

 

“Sure is.” Curt closes his eyes and leans back against the window.

 

“I do wish you wouldn’t speak so callously about your own life, though. You matter.”

 _You matter,_ Owen thinks, _just as much as anyone you could lay down your life for._

 _You matter,_ Owen thinks, but doesn’t say, _to me._

 

“Well then I suppose I’ve got some good news for you.” Curt says, complacently.

 

“Do you now?” Owen turns the wheel and the car rolls into the parking lot of the hotel, approaching the same spot it’d been parked in before.

 

“I’m pretty confident that I’ll make it out of this one alive.” Curt offers, as Owen pulls into the space and shifts into park.

 

“How can you be so sure?”

 

“Well, according to my briefing, I’ve got a partner looking out for me.” Curt smirks.

 

Owen is silent for a few moments, unsure of what to say as he turns the keys and shuts the ignition off. Curt opens his door and steps out, before leaning back for a brief second to speak again.

“And I know you’re not supposed to get too comfortable in this line of work, but for some reason, I really trust him.” Curt summons all the fake self-assuredness he possibly can, and wills himself to punctuate his comment with a wink, closing the car door.

 

Owen pauses a moment, still in the driver’s seat, and watches him do it. And when he finally follows, he keeps himself just a step behind, to watch Curt stride forward, with strong broad shoulders and commanding intrepid steps, and despite his fatigue, an air of bravery in his gait that conjures images of mythological heroes returning from battle.

Curt looks back to see if Owen is following him at pace, and when he meets Owen’s eyes, he gives an impossibly genuine smile, all sunshine, and spirit, and self-sacrifice and Owen melts as he returns it.

And when he turns back around to enter the building, Owen watches him, not merely with intrigue, but with reverence.

 

 _Yes,_ Owen thinks, but still cannot force himself to say, _You’ve got a partner looking out for you._

_Never doubt._

 

They fill the elevator with no sound but their own tired breathing as they take it up to return to their rooms.

Curt steals one last glance at Owen before they spend the night apart. He wonders if Owen ever looks at him the same way.

Curt walks into his room, closes the door, gets undressed, lays down, and dreams.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: gun violence

The third day of the mission doesn’t portend much excitement either, and Curt takes his time getting out of bed, as if in protest.

Owen knocks on his door to see if he’s awake yet, and Curt answers it, bleary-eyed and slow-moving.

Owen is mostly dressed already, missing only his jacket and leaving the top few buttons of his aubergine colored shirt undone, but he hasn’t gotten to his hair yet, and the mop of loose strands looks downright fluffy from the bedhead, and yet, somehow, effortlessly swept in a way that makes the chaos seem purposeful. Loose tendrils frame his face and Curt thinks that it’s a damn crime MI6 would even suggest a trim.

“Get a move on.” Owen tells him pointedly, and suddenly Curt is aware of how underdressed he is, and though he is by no means naked, he feels very exposed. But he can’t force himself to summon the shame, too overwhelmed by trying to memorize every flyaway on Owen’s head and thinking about what a sight this would be to wake up to everyday. He’s never been a morning person, but he’d get up before the sun for the rest of his life if it meant this view was waiting for him.

Despite his frustration at the intrusion and wake-up call, he gives a tired smile and a mocking salute and says “Got it.”

Owen’s expression softens for just a moment, until he manages to restrain it back into a tight lipped grin, turning to trudge back into his own room and murmuring something about early mornings, and “one of these days, just saying it”, and how badly he would like a cup of coffee.

 

When Owen fixes his hair in the mirror, he finds his thoughts drifting back to Curt, who he’s certain he woke up just now, and his chest, and his messy hair, which he never noticed almost curls at the ends when it’s uncombed, and he thinks about how everything Curt does is so effortless. How it all seems to come naturally to him.

He practices a smile in the mirror.

 

Curt is already dressed and waiting by the time he exits his room again, and he seems very proud of himself to boot. Owen would like to be annoyed, but there’s something so disarming in the smug smile that Curt beams at him that all he can do is sigh and give in.

 

The third day of the mission is supposed to be simple. The agency calls it an “extraction” which means that they need to get in and out of the nearby compound, and steal a file from it. They only request the one file, which Curt thinks is odd, as he stares down at one drawer of many, in one filing cabinet of many, and removes one file of many. There’s more information to be gathered here, but Curt follows orders, and only takes what’s asked of him.

 

It’s not hard getting into the building, at least. As uneventful as the stakeout was, it provided the information regarding when the compound had the least security. No external guards, only a few on the inside, which shouldn’t be much of an issue.

Curt hands the file over to Owen and exits the room, resuming position as lookout. As he steps out he sees a guard approaching, and makes a quick assessment of the situation. The guard is armed, but he still has a brief second for the element of surprise. He draws his firearm and shoots to wound, hitting the man in the left leg and bringing him down. He keeps the gun pointed at him, verifying that he’s incapacitated.

Curt considers firing again, finishing him off. From behind him, Owen steps out from the room and into the hall, alerted by the sound of the gunshot and anxious to see what the commotion is, and to provide cover if necessary.

He finds the scene: Curt, weapon still drawn and aimed, and the guard on the floor panting, cursing, clutching his bleeding limb.

Curt’s finger is on the trigger. It’s better not to leave anyone who could recognize their faces, he’d been told. It’s cleaner not to leave any loose ends.

Curt feels Owen’s eyes bore into him. Owen doesn’t say a word, just watches, with rapt attention, almost awe. He fiddles with the collar of his shirt, fidgeting. Curt could swear he hears his breathing get heavier.

Something about the way Owen is focused on him makes a chill run down his spine. Everything feels tilted.

He pulls the trigger.

The bullet lodges itself in the guard’s chest. Curt couldn’t bring himself to aim for the head. The guard collapses back, falling flat.

“He’s not getting up anytime soon.” he says, turning finally to face Owen.

He notices how white knuckled Owen is, clutching the file in his hands.

Attempting to course correct, he adds “Sorry you had to see that.”

Owen blinks and it’s like he’s waking up from a trance. His previously rigid features relax. He eases back into his casual pose. He gives an uneasy smile. “Nothing to apologize for, love.” He exhales, and the shuddering nature of the breath makes it sound like a nervous laugh. “Cela fait partie du travail.”

 

“In English?” Curt asks, still somewhat worried for him.

 

“It’s all part of the job.”


	6. Chapter 6

In the car, on the way back to the hotel, Curt tries to make conversation, to lighten the mood.

“How, uh, how are things, back home?”

 

“I suppose I can’t complain.” Owen replies, although his mind seems elsewhere.

 

Curt snorts. “Not complaining isn’t like you.”

 

“Oh, sod off. You are insufferably rude to me, do you know that?” he bites back sardonically. 

 

“And yet you still hang around.” Curt retorts. “You’re living...where, now? London, right?”

 

Owen nods. He feels a little bit of warmth rising within him. _He remembered._

 

“What it’s like there?”

 

Owen groans. _“Rainy.”_

 

Now that sounds like the Owen he knows, all pleasant pessimism and melodrama. He lets out an airy giggle.

 

“While we’re on the subject of home, how’s your mother doing?” Owen asks.

 

Curt makes a “so-so” gesture with his hand. “She’s alright. I don’t see her as much as I’d like to. Lord knows she doesn’t let me hear the end of it.”

Owen chuckles a little.

“I’m seeing about getting her a safehouse.” he continues. “Especially considering the promotion.”

 

“That’s probably a good idea.” Owen replies, “Tell her I said hello, would you?” he continues, “You’ve got to let me meet her one one of these days. From how you describe her she seems to be a remarkable woman.”

 

“She’s my mom.” Curt shrugs.

 

“Well she sounds lovely. I suppose that’s proof enough that politeness isn’t passed genetically.”

Curt shoots Owen a dirty look, but the smile pulling at his lips betrays his exasperation.

 

As Owen laughs at his own joke, there’s a question tugging at Curt’s mind, one that he knows he shouldn’t ask. As is standard, however, his curiosity gets the better of him.

“Are you,” he gulps, “seeing anyone?”

“Since we’re talking about home.” he adds quickly, as reasoning.

 

Owen stiffens, hesitating, not wanting to reveal too much, but not wanting to lie. “Not at the moment.” He pauses, considering his next words carefully.“I’ve been...preoccupied with work.”

 

Curt feels a pang in his heart. It feels a little like an unwanted reminder of how painfully single he’s been too. It feels a little like hope. He didn’t think hope would taste so bitter.

His thoughts spin like a goddamn roulette ball and he’s not sure exactly where to place his bet.

He decides to play it safe.

He laughs lightly, rolls his eyes, sympathizes. “Yeah.” he says. “Tell me about it.”

The rest of the car ride is filled with casual small talk which continues as they stroll through the hotel lobby.

 

In the elevator to their rooms, Curt can’t help but think about the view from the doorway earlier in the day. Rallying his confidence, he manages to attempt a compliment. “You looked good like that this morning.”

 

“What, disheveled and exhausted?” he jokes.

 

“With your shirt like that, I mean. The top buttons left open. It’s a style nowadays that’s all.” he shrugs, in what he hopes is a casual enough way to cover his slight tremors from the nervousness.

 

“Hm.” Owen hums, thinking. “A bit showy, isn’t it? That’s the sort of style that would suit you, more than it would me.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Well, look--” he turns then, and without another word, his nimble fingers are at Curt’s shirt, making quick work of undoing the first and second buttons. Curt’s breath hitches, as he tries not stare at Owen’s efforts.

Seemingly satisfied, Owen steps back, as if to admire his work, eyeing Curt the way someone might appraise a piece of art. He grins. “See? You look dashing. _Un beau gosse._ ”

 

Curt, dumbstruck, tries to remind himself how to breathe. He spares a glance down at his chest, and then back up at Owen, and he hopes his eyes aren’t so wide and his cheeks aren’t so flushed. He can’t quite think of what to say, but is saved by the chiming of the elevator bell, indicating the opening of the doors, and Owen snickering under his breath as he moves forward.

 

In the spur of the moment, Curt blurts out “Hey!” without any forethought. Owen turns back to face him.

“There’s still some whiskey left, if you’d like to come over again tonight. We got done pretty early, I mean it’s only around sunset, so, we’ve got all night, and I--” he cuts himself off sheepishly, realizing that he’s rambling.

 

Owen supposes that he could use the opportunity to unwind. “I may just take you up on that.”

 

“I’ll leave the door unlocked.” Curt offers, with an enticing smile.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw: violence, blood

In the privacy of his own room, Owen considers not going.

Owen then considers that maybe he should go, with the intention of drinking as much as he can before Curt cuts him off (which he doesn’t suspect would be quick) and then just letting his mind fully separate from his mouth, saying whatever he wants to say, and then blaming it on the alcohol or pretending not to remember anything if things go sideways.  

And then, Owen considers that maybe he should go, if for no other reason than to see if Curt buttoned his shirt back up.

He takes a deep breath. He tells himself to calm down. He tells himself that they have all the time in the world for saying things, or not saying things, or never saying things, or just thinking things and wishing you could say them but being too afraid to ruin everything.

He takes another deep breath.

 

He steps out into the hallway, and approaches Curt’s door. It’s unlocked, as promised.

At the click of the doorknob turning, Curt turns to greet Owen.

 

And then everything happens at once.

 

Curt sees Owen, and Owen sees the gunman. A figure approaching the room from the balcony, armed with a pistol.

Armed.

Something that Owen is not.

And Curt doesn’t see, and Curt doesn’t know.

And for a second, time freezes.

And everyone’s caught in the act.

And everyone’s caught existing in the same space.

Deer.

Headlights.

 

Owen doesn’t have any time to think.

So he doesn’t.

 

He yells to Curt to get down.

Curt drops instinctively.

 

Curt only gets glimpses of what happens after that.

 

There’s Owen running into the room.

There’s the sound of gunshots.

There’s Curt becoming aware of the assassin.

And just as soon, there’s Owen lunging, throwing himself at the assassin.

 

And then he tackles him. And there’s a scuffle. A struggle. And the gun goes sliding across the floor.

And the fight continues. Hand to hand. Grappling. On the ground. Thrashing.

There’s hands and rage and rolling. And bodies slamming against the sharp corner of the bedside table. And groaning in pain.

And Owen reaching around desperately with one hand.

Gritted teeth and panicked eyes.

And Owen grabbing hold of the first object he can.

And Owen taking hold of a glass ashtray.

And the fighting. And the turning.

And Owen above the assailant.

And the ashtray in his hand.

And his mind is blank.

And he raises the ashtray up.

And his mind is blank.

And he brings the ashtray down.

 

There is a pause. A stillness. An incredibly loud silence.

 

And then Owen does it again.

Up.

Down.

Again.

Up.

Down.

Again.

Again.

Again.

 

It makes the most god awful crashing noise.

But the noise is nothing compared to the visual.

 

Again.

Again.

Again.

 

Owen doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. He’s in a daze. He’s focused so intensely that the whole world has disappeared. He’s stuck. He’s scared. His eyes are vacant.

Every built up drop of adrenaline,

Ever buried emotion,

Every protective instinct,

Every impulse,

Comes rushing to the surface in an uncontrollable release.

 

Again.

He hears something. Very softly. It sounds almost familiar.

 

Again.

 

He thinks he hears his name being called, but it sounds so distant, almost like he’s underwater.

 

Again.

 

And then a strong, firm, grounding hand on his shoulder. It’s Curt. It’s _Curt._

Owen stops. For a split second, he feels almost comforted. Another hand on his other shoulder.

He could get lost in this feeling.

And then both of those hands are physically wrenching him off the body below him, dragging him, shoving him roughly onto the floor behind him. He’s snapped back to reality.

“Owen, come on! It’s over! It’s done. He’s dead. Come on, get off of him. It’s _over.”_

 

He turns away from the body to face his partner.

Curt looks confused, a little frightened, and utterly frazzled. Rightfully so.

 

Owen looks him in the eyes for barely a second. The whole world comes to a screeching halt. He’s panting. His eyes look wide and terrified. He looks down at his hands.

He freezes.

He shuts down.

 

The air is still. Curt tries to assess the situation.

There’s a body. A corpse. Curt shifts his view to look over at it. The face is wrecked. Brutalized. Bloody. He stops looking at it before his stomach flips.

And down in front of him, Owen, looking nothing like he’s ever seen him before. Perfectly still and hunched over himself.  Fearful eyes, bloody hands. He’s barely breathing, Curt realizes, it’s like he’s suspended in time. Limbs tucked up in a way that makes him look smaller, and for lack of a better word, vulnerable. Owen, with that furrowed brow and horrified expression, who looks at his hands like he can’t believe what he’s just done. Owen, afraid and shaken and petrified. Owen, whose hands shake slightly as the ashtray passively drops onto the floor.

 

“Hey?” Curt’s voice is cautious. Quiet and coaxing. “Owen?”

Owen does not look up at him.

 

 _Shit._ Curt thinks. _Shit, okay._

 

He lowers himself, stooping down so that he’s almost knelt on one knee. Close to eye level with Owen.

“Are you hurt?” he asks.

Owen slowly, almost robotically, shakes his head no.

Curt breathes a sigh of relief. _Thank God._

With a strong hand, Curt pats Owen’s shoulder.

“Stay here for a second, alright?”

Owen stays.

 Curt gets up and walks into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. He takes a few desperate heaving breaths, trying to ground himself and steady his mind among the linoleum tiles and buzz of the yellowish lights. He runs his hands down his face.

“Shit.” he says aloud.

And then again, louder. “Shit!”

 

“Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Fuck. Okay. _Fuck._ ” he clutches the sides of the sink tightly and looks at himself in the mirror. He stares into his own eyes. “Get a grip.” he says to himself.

He holds up his wrist, looks at his watch, takes one more deep breath and makes a call.

 

“Why the fuck are you calling me in the middle of the night, Mega?”

What a way to make an impression on a new boss.

 

“Hi Cynthia.” he starts, pure anxiety seeping into his voice, “I, uh, I have a situation…”

 

“Cut the shit, Agent.” (he does not correct her to “special agent”) “I don’t have time for a guessing game. What kind of situation?”

 

One more deep breath.

“There’s a dead body in my hotel room and I need it taken care of.”

 

There’s a pause and Curt almost starts to worry that she hung up.

 

He can hear Cynthia groan through the receiver. “Jesus Christ.”

 

“I know, I’m--”

 

“ _Jesus Christ.”_ she repeats. “You can’t handle this yourself?”

 

“It’s a corpse, Cynthia, where the hell am I supposed to put it?!” he blurts, frantic and unfiltered.

 

Another pause.

 

“Okay, first of all, never take that tone with me again or I’ll have your ass out on the streets.”

She sighs. “And second of all, you are _so fucking lucky_ that we have an available resource to deal with this right now. Stick a ‘do not disturb’ sign on the door and leave it unlocked.”

 

“I probably won’t be in the room when whoever you’re sending gets here.” Curt suggests hesitantly.

 

“That’s probably for the best.” Cynthia says grimly.

The call ends without another word, just Cynthia abruptly hanging up.

 _Okay,_ Curt thinks, _next order of business._

 

He grabs a washcloth from the towel rack, turns on the sink and runs in under the warm water. He wrings it out a little before opening the door and stepping back into the main room.

He finds Owen exactly where he left him, curled up and frozen, still staring at his hands almost in disbelief.

Curt approaches him and kneels in front of him, putting himself at the same level.

Owen slowly lifts his head and Curt can see his glassy eyes. He looks drained. He stares straight ahead and doesn’t move otherwise.

 

“Owen?” he says in the gentlest voice he can muster, “I need to see your hands. They’re all bloody.”

 

Owen silently extends his arms in compliance.

 

“Atta boy.” Curt says comfortingly, taking hold Owen’s wrists. As carefully as possible, he takes the washcloth and uses it to clean the blood off of Owen’s hands. It is not an easy task. Some of it has dried by now. But he is tender and persistent, working softly to remove every fleck of red. When he can’t find any more to wipe up, he pulls back for a moment. There’s a small splash on Owen’s face and he reaches over and cleans it off with one swipe. Owen’s eyes flutter closed for just a second as he does so.

“There.” he says. “That’s better.”

 

Owen retracts his hands and looks at them once more. Cleaned of evidence now. He stares.

 

“Owen, I’m gonna need you to talk to me, alright? Can you do that?”

 

The room is silent, save for Owen’s shuddering breaths.

 

“I killed him.” He says it so quietly, so slowly, that it’s barely a whisper.

 

“Wha--”

 

_“OH GOD, CURT, I KILLED HIM!”_

He’s in hysterics suddenly. Gasping and sobbing and darting his eyes around. Disbelief crumbles. Reality sets in.

 

“Shh…shh...hey…” Curt tries to placate him, to no avail.

 

A harsh strangled sob forces its way out of Owen’s throat as tears stream down his face.

 

Curt does the only thing he can do.

 

He throws his arms around Owen, pulling him to a tight embrace.

Owen’s body is limp against him, and he lets himself be pulled into the hug effortlessly.

He’s crying much more steadily now, as he buries his face into the crook of Curt’s neck.

Curt just lets him. Just holds him.

Eventually Owen brings his arms around Curt as well, completing the hug.

 

Curt can hear Owen’s breath catch in his throat as he tries to speak. “Oh God, the body. We have to do something with the body.”

 

“Shh.” he shushes reassuringly, petting the back of Owen’s head, “I handled it. It’s taken care of.”

 

Owen drops his face again, weeping for a few more moments. Curt tightens his grip when suddenly Owen pulls back completely, pushing himself off of Curt with both arms. Gripping Curt’s shoulders, he finally makes direct eye contact. His voice is hoarse and rough as he speaks. “I didn’t mean to. I swear. _I swear,_ I didn’t mean to-- I wasn’t trying to--” he slumps again.

 

Curt looks over Owen’s shoulder at the body: its torn up face makes him tremble involuntarily. And he thinks about the almost possessed look in Owen’s eyes and just how hard he had to pull to pry Owen off of it.

And then he feels Owen shiver against him, and nuzzle his face into his shoulder, and his sleeve is damp with his tears.

“I know.” He runs his fingers through Owen’s hair. “I know you didn’t mean to.”

He lowers his hand from Owen’s hair to run it down his back, rubbing gentle calming circles. “I know.” he repeats. “It’s hard, isn’t it?”

“No,” the confession chokes itself out his throat as he digs his fingertips into the material of Curt’s shirt. “It’s _easy_. It’s too goddamn easy.”

Curt doesn’t know what to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything. Just holds Owen tighter, envelops him. Repeats his calming whispers and sweet nothings softly.

Owen’s cries slowly fade, his breathing becomes steadier, more natural. He pulls away and Curt can see his face is slightly red from crying, his eyes are still misty with continual tears running down his cheeks.

 

Curt looks at him with adoration. “You almost took a bullet for me.” he says, incredulously.

 

“Anything for you.” Owen breathes.

 

Curt runs his hand up and down Owen’s arm. He lets out a breathy laugh, a sad smile tugging at his lips. His own eyes are watery now. “Weren’t you just lecturing me yesterday about not putting my life on the line?”

 

Owen coughs. “It’s my job to protect you.”

 

“It’s not your job to _die_ for me.”

 

“I couldn’t lose you. I couldn’t...The second I realized that I could lose you I just...I lost control. I couldn’t hold myself back, Curt. I couldn’t-- I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I lost you.” Owen admits, through gasping breaths and tears, ducking his head down.

 

“Bastard.” Curt blurts, making Owen’s head snap up. “You think _I_ could just go on living if you gave your life for mine?”

 

“It’s--” Owen starts.

 

“ _Your job_ , I know.” Curt interrupts.

 

“It’s not about the job! It’s about you. I can’t lose _you._ You mean too much to me, I-- _”_ another sob escapes him. “I can’t lose you.”

 

“I’m right here.” Curt says softly. “You saved my life.”

 

“I lost control.”

 

 _“You saved my life.”_ Curt repeats.

 

“I care about you. Oh God, I care about you so much.”

 

Curt reaches over and wipes a tear from Owen’s face with his thumb and cups his cheek. “I care about you too.”

 

Owen closes his eyes and leans into the touch.

 

After a few moments, Curt speaks up again.

“How are you feeling?” Curt asks. “I was afraid you went into shock for a second there.”

 

Owen takes a deep breath before opening his eyes. “I’m alright. I’m--” he falters for a moment. “I’m just a bit shaken, that’s all.”

 

Curt tilts his head, eyebrows lowering in sympathy. “I understand.”

 

He drops his hand from Owen’s face and pulls back entirely, pushing himself off the floor into a standing position. He extends his arm down to Owen, offering an outstretched hand like a picturesque gentleman. “Can I walk you to your room?”

 

Owen takes hold of his hand and Curt helps him to his feet. Once Owen’s up, Curt lets go of his hand and reaches his arm around his waist, walking him to the door. Owen exhales an airy laugh at the contact, but nonetheless leans some of his weight on Curt, finding his legs somewhat wobbly from the stress and lack of movement.

“I got you, don’t worry.” Curt assures.

 

He ushers Owen towards the door, and with his free hand, opens it. As he steps out with Owen in tow, he quickly roots around on the table nearest to the door and grabs the provided “do not disturb” sign, slipping it onto the door handle, as he swings it shut behind him. Owen raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment on it, too weary to be properly suspicious.

 

He leads Owen across the short distance of the hallway to his room. “Got your key?” he asks.

Owen haphazardly and almost sluggishly reaches into his pocket for the key, passing it over to Curt, who gets the door open and brings Owen inside.

 

He walks with Owen over to the bed and Owen immediately collapses upon it. The whole movement of the fall is somehow graceful as he throws himself onto the mattress like exhaling a breath.

For the first time that night, Owen actually looks relaxed. And if Curt’s being honest, cute. He looks cute. Curt just saw him kill a man, but watching him finally unwind, Curt can’t help but look on with such endearment. It takes him a moment to find the words.

“Hey, is it alright if I stay here for tonight?”

 

Owen has already reached up and taken a loose hold of his wrist before he’s finished speaking. “Please. I’d prefer it.”

And he lightly tugs on Curt’s wrist to emphasize his point, shifting to make room and pull him onto the bed.

Yes, the bed was small enough for one, but tonight Owen also knew that it would be big enough for two.

 

Curt crawls into the bed beside him, and the two men lay there, face to face for a short while, drinking in the soothing silence after the upset of the night. Curt looks into Owen’s eyes, admiring how they sparkle even in the darkness of the room. He runs a hand cautiously through Owen’s hair again, and Owen hums in response. Concern and affection meld together in Curt’s expression.

“Tonight was so rough. Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?”

Owen moves even closer to Curt, so that their chests are almost pressed against each other. He exhales, hesitating. “Hold me.” he manages with a quiet crack in his voice.

Curt instantly has an arm around Owen. “That’s it? Just want me to hold you?”

“Well, unless you want to kiss me.” Owen quips.

Curt raises his eyebrows. “What if I do? What if I want to?” he tests, sitting himself up a little.

“Don’t tease me, Mega.” Owen huffs, rising to meet his height.

Curt’s smile tilts itself into a smirk. “Who’s teasing?” he cups Owen’s cheek and pulls his now flushed face towards him, stopping just shy of his mouth.

“Do you want this?” he asks, somehow both serious and inviting.

Owen’s breath hitches. “God yes,” he admits, all as one exhales, before thinking twice, stammering, “but, I--”

“Shh.” Curt interrupts him. “You saved my life. I’m just trying to say thank you.”

And then he’s pulling Owen impossibly closer, capturing his lips as his eyes fall shut. And he spent so much time just looking at Owen’s mouth that having it against his own feels so surreal, feels almost dreamlike. It’s exactly as he imagined. Owen’s lips are soft and he kisses almost methodically, melting into it and yet somehow taking control of it, and Curt can feel himself falling apart at the seams. Owen tastes sweet and frankly a little smokey. _From the cigarettes,_ Curt figures. Owen snakes a hand into Curt’s hair and pulls slightly, eliciting a soft moan. He can practically feel the proud smirk that spreads on Owen’s lips pressed to his own. Still, Owen is unbearably smug, and still, Curt absolutely loves it.

When they finally pull apart, they’re both panting. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.” Curt says, grinning wildly.

Owen flops back down onto the pillows, chest heaving.

“You’re one hell of a kisser.” Curt adds, laying down beside him.

Owen’s shoulders bounce with an airy chuckle as he rests his head against Curt. Lazily, he trails a fingertip along Curt’s upper chest, left exposed from having never buttoned the shirt back up. “I need you.” he whispers, “I _need_ you.”

And then he curls fully into Curt as Curt’s arms wrap around him. He closes his eyes, feeling safe and serene, drifting into sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

When they wake up the next morning, their limbs are still tangled together. Owen is practically on top of Curt, arms splayed out over his partner. As he opens his eyes, he finds Curt already waiting for him with a soft smile.

“Hey, good lookin’.” he laughs lightly.

Owen rolls his eyes and rolls himself off of Curt, and onto the other side of the bed with an unceremonious “whumpf” sound. 

He looks up at the ceiling. “You know, eventually we’re going to have to talk about what happened last night.”

“What, that we made out?”

“Shh!” Owen hisses immediately. “Keep your voice down. Do you have to be so crass?” 

 

“I just don’t see what there is to talk about.” Curt shrugs. He moves to get up from the bed. “And, anyway, we’ve got our last day of the mission today, so I have to get back to my room and--”

Owen swiftly shoots an arm out to grab a tight hold of Curt’s wrist. “What are people going to think if they see  _ you  _ exiting  _ my  _ room at this hour of the morning?”

 

“‘Damn, I’m jealous’?” Curt suggests, jokingly. 

 

“Please, be serious, for one moment.”

 

“Look,” he weasels his hand free from Owen’s, “none of the people in this hotel are going to give a shit if they see me leaving your room.”

 

“And what about--”

“The kiss?” Curt cuts him off. “Well, I meant it. Did you?”

 

Owen blinks. “Of course, I did.”

 

“Then what’s the issue?”

 

“We can’t just  _ be  _ together.”

 

“Why not? We’re both into each other, clearly.”

 

Owen gives an exasperated sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Are you being deliberately ignorant?”

 

“I’m being fed up with constantly stuffing my feelings down and pretending they don’t exist.” Curt retorts. “So what I’d like is for us to stop pretending we don’t feel anything for each other. And then whatever happens after that…I guess we’ll figure it out.”

 

At this point, Owen just relents. “That’s always your strategy isn’t it? Just to wing it?”

 

“Hasn’t failed me yet.” Curt grins, getting up and walking towards the door. 

 

Owen rises to watch him go and get ready himself, when Curt stops and turns and on his heels. “Wait a minute.” he says, stepping back into the room. He approaches Owen, before raising himself onto his toes and pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. “For good luck.” he explains, and before Owen can get another word in, he turns again and walks back to the door, opening it and stepping out, sparing only one last glance over his shoulder, and leaving Owen incapable of doing anything but watching and trying to enjoy the view.

 

When Curt gets back to his door, the “do not disturb” sign is missing, which he takes as a good sign. Entering the room, he finds the body completely gone, almost without a trace, save for a small stain on the floor. Silently, he thanks whatever poor underpaid guardian angel was watching over him. There’s a note on his nightstand, which he picks up and inspects.

 

_ “Never fuck up like this again :)”  _ it reads. 

 

Curt would very much like to believe that he never would, but even he knew that that was a little unrealistic to ask.


	9. Chapter 9

Owen cleans up nice in the morning, Curt notices. He’s almost more dressed up than usual, even going through the effort of putting on a tie. Like he had some kind of appearance to maintain.

 

In the car, Owen clears his throat, “About what happened last night,”

 

“I thought we already talked about this.” Curt crosses his arms.

 

“Not that. The, ah, the _other_ event of the night.”

 

“Right.” Curt mutters. “ _That.”_

 

“I trust that the situation has been…” he trails off, with a wave of his hand.

“Handled.” Curt says simply, although it occurs to him in that instant, that he didn’t actually know where the body was taken or what became of it. And he realizes as well, that he doesn’t want to know.

 

“I just,” he starts, “I need you to know that I only...acted how I did to protect you. And I don’t plan on making a habit of…” he sucks in a breath, “ _violent outbursts._ The thought of losing you made me lose my senses, which is, I’m not proud to admit, something I’d been afraid of for quite some time. I can only hope that you don’t think any less of me.”

 

“Honestly, I think that might be damn near impossible.” Curt admits.

 

Owen laughs. “You may be too forgiving, Curt.”

“You’re easy to forgive.” Curt shrugs. “And besides, you were defending me. You were just doing what you were assigned on the mission to do.”

 

“You suppose the ends justify the means?” Owen raises an eyebrow.

 

“I think they’re gonna have to or we’re both really gonna lose our minds.”

 

On the way, Curt goes over the information from his briefing on the last day of the mission. The plan is to apprehend the leader of the compound and drop him off at a rendezvous point. The agency wants him alive. All the better for Curt, who had seen enough violence on this mission to make him want to take a long break from the business altogether.

He wouldn’t, of course. He couldn’t imagine himself taking a break for so long. Besides, he was needed at the agency, and he’d seen worse, and knew he’d continue to see worse.

Perks of the promotion.

Part of the job.

 

Getting back into the compound is simple enough, made simpler by the fact that they were down a guard.

And then it was just a matter of getting into the right room, guns drawn.

The leader surrenders easily enough, not even rising from his office chair, with the threat of two barrels staring him down.

 

“We should restrain him.” Owen states, looking towards Curt.

With the hand not holding his gun, Curt awkwardly rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, probably.”

 

“You didn’t bring anything, did you?” Owen asks, in a harsh whisper through closed teeth.

 

“Don’t make me look unprofessional in front of the crime lord.” Curt pushes back.

 

“Well, I’d just like to know what the hell exactly your plan is.” Owen hisses.

 

“Give me your tie.” Curt says, as the idea lights up in his mind.

 

“What?” Owen asks, “Curt, that’s not going to--”

 

 _“Just do it.”_ Curt commands, almost petulantly.

 

Owen huffs, but complies, undoing his tie with one hand and roughly holding it out to Curt. Curt can’t deny that it’s a pretty attractive visual, although he reminds himself to focus on the matter at hand.

 

“Thank you.” he says, with faux politeness, before striding over to the man and forcibly pulling his arms back, so that his wrists are behind the back of the chair. He squats a little for better access before pulling the tie taut and looping it in several intricate patterns. He steps back and watches the man struggle against the bindings for a moment, unable to break out of them, or even stand, as Curt affixed the makeshift handcuffs to the seat itself.

Proud of himself, he looks back at Owen with a cheesy grin and a thumbs up.

Owen laughs lightly and shakes his head, but returns the gesture all the same.

 

With a series of unfriendly shoves, they roll the crime boss out of the building and stick him in the back of the car. Making quips at each other the whole way of course.

 

“I hope he’s got someone to forward his calls to. It’s starting to look like he might be _tied up_ in meetings all day.”

 

A laugh and then,

 

“Do you think he’ll be getting out of this one?”

 

“Unfortunately, I think _knot.”_

 

This continues for the entire journey, with the two spies laughing harder and harder after each increasingly bad pun, and the man they’ve captured going from groaning to asking for “death, rather than torture.”

 

When they hand him off at the rendezvous, the other agents blink in surprise at the bizarre scene: the inclusion of the chair, the impromptu restraints, and Curt and Owen desperately trying to bite their tongues and hold back their giggling.

The agents exchange a few strange looks among themselves, but say nothing to their faces, keeping their snide comments under their breaths and to each other.

Between handshakes, Curt catches one of them mumbling _“last resort”_ to his associate.

He laughs it off.


	10. Chapter 10

When they get back to the hotel, Owen asks Curt if he’d like to spend the night again.

“I thought you didn’t want me to be seen exiting your room in the morning.” Curt challenges.

“It’s our last night here,” Owen replies, “so I don’t suppose it matters all that much who sees.”

He leans into Owen’s ear to whisper, “I have to finish packing, but then I’ll be right over.”

 

“Don’t be long.” Owen whispers back.

 

And Curt packs his bags, probably the fastest he ever has in his life.

 

When Curt knocks, Owen is there to greet him. Curt steps into the room, and immediately, Owen extends an arm to close the door behind him. A nonchalant motion, but one that effectively pins Curt in place. There’s only a brief second of eager eye contact and mutual smiles before Owen closes the distance between them and recaptures Curt’s lips.

 

Curt reaches his hands around Owen’s hips, but soon enough draws back, propping himself against the door and using his strength to push off of it, sending Owen stumbling back into the room.

And then it’s just the two of them, carefully stepping backwards and around each other, in and out of kisses, discarding clothing as they go. A waltz of sorts. Perhaps a tango.

 

They finally collapse onto the bed together, and Owen exhales a contented breath, releasing the tension in his body as if deflating into Curt’s arms.

“How did you do that, today, with the tie? A knot in that material shouldn’t have been strong enough.”

“Handcuff knot, and then a constrictor knot, which is really just a variation on a clove hitch. You can’t get out of it.”

Owen squints. “How do you _know_ that?”

“Boy scout.” Curt reminds him.

 _“Semper paratus.”_ Owen recalls, lolling his head against Curt’s shoulder.

Curt reaches a hand up to card through Owen’s hair. “Yeah, you got it, baby.”

He feels Owen let out a quiet airy laugh against his skin at the pet name. “I’ve waited a long time for this. If we’re going to be an item, I’m going to act like it. Don’t let it make you feel emasculated.”

 

Owen pulls back. “Wouldn’t dream of it, darling.” He smirks.

 

His facial expression hardens, and he sobers for a moment. “This is dangerous, Curt.” he says seriously.

 

“What happened to “danger is sweet’?” Curt counters.

 

“Too much sweetness can be addictive.” Owen sighs.

 

Curt leans into press a light kiss against his lips. “Then consider me a junkie.”

 

“Curt,” Owen pulls away, his tone grave, “we can never go public with this. If we’re found out, it will cost us our jobs, and worse.”

 

“I know.” Curt breathes.

 

“So shouldn’t we stop?” Owen asks with a solemnness in his voice, and yet the barest ghost of a resigned smile tugging at his lips.

 

Curt’s mind drifts. He thinks about meetings, and briefings, and reports. He thinks about handshakes and orders. And nodding his head, always nodding his head. And “yes sir” and “yes ma’am” and “of course” and “can do” and “sure thing”. He thinks about the instinct to agree that’s been drilled into him like a dog salivating at the sound of a bell. He thinks about every time he’s ever said “yes”.

 

He inhales and exhales a deep breath, and then does it again, and again, until it’s no longer just breathing but bubbling up laughter that makes him grin almost madly and makes happy tears form in his eyes.

He shakes his head. “No.” he says. “No we shouldn’t.”

 

And then he’s got Owen’s face in his hands and he pulls him close, kissing him like it’s the last time he might ever get the chance. Kissing him like the world is ending.

And Owen kisses back with the same ferocity.

 

“You make a compelling argument.” Owen breathes against his lips as they pull apart.

 

Curt reaches one arm out to turn off the lamp as Owen cozies up against Curt’s chest and into his unoccupied arm. The light blinks out as Curt draws his arm back around Owen, pulling him close enough that Owen can listen to his heartbeat.

 

“Goodnight.” Owen whispers, letting his eyes flutter shut.

 

Curt presses one last kiss to the top of Owen’s head.

  
“Goodnight, _Special Agent._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really poured my heart and soul into this one, folks. I hope you enjoyed reading as much as I enjoyed writing it. Kudos and comments are appreciated.


End file.
